


Firsts: A Love (and Horror) Story

by GeorgeEmerson



Category: The Conjuring (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-26 23:14:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21787222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeorgeEmerson/pseuds/GeorgeEmerson
Summary: “April 1946. Monster in siting room scared grabbed me and pretend to be Auntie Viv.”
Relationships: Ed Warren/Lorraine Warren
Comments: 8
Kudos: 29
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Firsts: A Love (and Horror) Story

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pocky_slash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocky_slash/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! From one lover of the (fictional) Warrens to another, I truly hope you enjoy this and that it's as much fun to read as it was to write. xx
> 
> Note regarding warning: there is a brief description of violence in this story. It does not exceed canon levels of violence or gore.

**1946**

Lorraine dusted her small hands against her cotton smock and looked around the brightly-lit sitting room in satisfaction. It had taken the better part of an hour, but she'd finally managed to push the furniture back against the walls – including Big Ol' Pop's heavy roll-top desk with its rows and rows of curious cubby holes, tiny drawers, and tantalizing locked compartments. She'd even rolled the faded red carpet into a tight tube, exposing a large square of the slightly gritty and scuffed wooden floor planks. 

She grinned as she propped her friends – Flossy the doll with eyes that actually blinked and Ned the threadbare stuffed dog – up against the carpet. Mother was visiting Cousin Edie in Ligonier. Big Ol' Pop and Grandma Nan weren't due back from the shops until after dark. She could see through the window that the sun was still up high, so Lorraine knew she had plenty of time to perform for her audience. 

She grabbed the wooden broom she'd propped nearby and bowed deeply to Flossy and Ned. 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she announced loudly in her most regal voice, “I am Lorraine Moran. I am seven years old and I am a scientist, an actress, and a telephone answerer and also most important I am a very famous dancer.” She stole a look at Flossy and Ned to see how this was being received. They stared back at her intently; so far, so good. 

“You are very lucky people,” she went on happily, “because I will dance for you today. This is my dancing partner.” She proudly held out the broom. “His name is...” she faltered a bit, having not thought out this part yet. “His name is Ice Cream.” 

Lorraine set down the broom once more and picked up the record she'd laid on the roll-top desk earlier. “Today I will be dancing to 'A Tisket, A Tasket'.”

She carefully removed the record from its sleeve, just as Big Ol' Pop had shown her so many times before, and set it cautiously on the shiny turntable. She ever-so-slowly placed the needle and turned on the machine – and after a few moments, the rhythmic trumpets she so loved blared out from the speaker and Ella started to sing. 

Lorraine twisted, bopped and shimmied. Her tangled curls ricocheted around her shoulders as she moved. Occasionally, she paused to dramatically sweep the broom around her. Flossy and Ned watched (approving, she knew). Then, as the song reached its end, she launched the broom high over her head in a final crowd-pleasing flourish. 

Immediately, she knew she'd misjudged the throw. The broom sailed sideways instead of up and crashed into a framed photograph of Auntie Viv in her First Communion dress and the ornate painted-wood crucifix that hung next to it. The broom and the photograph fell to the ground in a loud clatter. 

Somehow, the crucifix still clung to the wall. It swung slowly back and forth, upside down now, like a weighty pendulum.

The record ended and a heavy static hiss oppressively filled the air. Lorraine, already dreading having to tell Big Ol' Pop what she'd done, rushed over and crouched down to inspect the damage to the photo. She picked it up gingerly by it's plain black frame – and that's when she saw it. 

It was there, just behind her, reflected a hundred times in the cracked grass that splintered Auntie Viv's face. It stared at her. It bared its teeth. 

She spun around, horrified, her mouth drawn into a tight “O” of surprise – and, immediately, was plunged into near darkness. Colors leeched out of the room around her. It didn't make any sense, just moments ago the room was filled with daylight, and now it was as though an unseen hand pulled heavy, moldy curtains over each of the windows. She struggled to see, she needed to know where it was, needed to keep as much distance as possible between them. 

But her eyes wouldn't focus and she knew that it would know that, that it would like that, and that it would pounce now and take her. She urged her feet to move, but felt frozen to the spot. Her tiny body shook with fear. The hiss grew louder, more aggressive, pushing itself painfully inside her ears. 

Something sinewy and damp wound itself around her arm.

Lorraine whimpered a thin, vulnerable sound. “Help me!” she gasped out, “Help me! Mommy! Grandma Na--”

“Lorraine?” There was a gentle, warm voice calling her from the darkness. “Lorraine, it's okay, sweetheart. It's only me. I've come home.”

Lorraine thought she should have felt relieved, but she couldn't make sense of what was happening in her panic. “What? Who? Don't hurt me!” The thing on her arm tightened its grip maliciously. 

“Who?” The voice chuckled indulgently. “Why, your Auntie Viv, sweetheart, of course.”

“Aun... Auntie Viv?” Lorraine thought the voice was familiar, but knew this couldn't be. “I don't believe you. Oh, God, go away! Leave me alone!” The dark around her seemed to blacken further as the thing clutching her began to snake upward her thin bicep. “Auntie Viv died!” 

When the voice came again, it was next to her – nearly on top of her. “Why, Lorraine,” it said wetly. “That doesn't mean I'm not right here.”

Lorraine screamed, terror surging through her. With terrific force, she wrenched her arm free and threw the photograph in the direction of the voice. It didn't connect with anything, landing facedown instead on the wooden floor and skidding to a stop under the roll-top desk. And with that, as though a switch had been flicked, light and quiet returned to the room. Lorraine was alone again. 

That was the first time. 

***

She reluctantly told Big Ol' Pop and Grandma Nan what she'd seen in the vision. She didn't really have much of a choice; Auntie Viv's photograph was battered and the sitting room remained in disarray, not to mention they found her shivering in a corner of the hall closet clutching Flossy in one hand and Grandma Nan's delicate rosary in the other. 

They listened as she stammered her explanation out, although Lorraine saw Big Ol' Pop's right eyebrow rise skyward more than once while she talked. That usually meant Real Trouble. In the end, though, Grandma Nan gently led Big Ol' Pop away for a private conversation – and when they came back, she got hugs and words of reassurance instead of punishment. Lorraine knew Grandma Nan and Big Ol' Pop didn't believe her, of course, but she figured Grandma Nan convinced Big Ol' Pop that Lorraine's obvious terror was punishment enough for her misdeeds. Of course, she'd also had to put all the furniture back, dust and polish every object with flat surface in a two block radius, and help Mrs. Synchowski next door with the washing for a month to earn money to replace the black picture frame. 

She never did tell them what she'd _heard_ in the vision, though. Auntie Viv had been Grandma Nan's youngest child, a miracle baby born more than nine years after her brothers and sisters. She'd been rambunctious, opinionated, and beloved. She didn't deserve the illness that had kept her bed-ridden and weak in her final months. And no one deserved to remember someone they loved as... whatever that thing was. 

Lorraine understood that — but she was still only seven, after all. She couldn't bear to keep the full details of what she'd experienced that day only in her mind. The memories picked at her — haunting, worrying and distracting her. She didn't know what the memories wanted; what was she was supposed to _do_ with these images that circled restlessly in her mind?

Finally, late one sleepless night in which she could almost hear the thing's moist, syrupy breath escaping from her closet, Lorraine did the only thing she could think of. She took her Bible out of her bedside table. She looked at it admiringly. It was a hard-backed Children's Bible with a scratchy blue fabric cover onto which a picture of Jesus solemnly leading a flock of sheep had been stamped in gold-leaf. It was her proudest possession, given to her on her first day at St. Timothy's School for Girls. 

Carefully, she opened it to the sheaf of thin blank pages at the back. She dislodged a stubby pencil from the jumble of plaid hair ribbons, Cracker Jack charms, and Tiddlywinks in the drawer. _“To all mity God,”_ she inscribed carefully, concentrating hard on making her letters neat like Sister Wendeline demanded. _“...who gave jyo to the world threw Jesus Christ, please proteckd me from that Thing. I love you. Amen. Lorraine.”_

Then underneath she wrote: _“April 1946. Monster in siting room scared grabbed me and pretend to be Auntie Viv.”_

**1956**

Ed's head hurt. Whose genius idea had it been to invite the St. Timothy's girls to be in Assumption of the Blessed Virgin’s Christmas pageant this year anyway? It wasn't the girls themselves that were the problem; obviously not, he and most every other teenaged boy in the congregation would have given a left kneecap to have more girls around. 

No, it was the fact that someone at St. Timothy's owned an actual, living donkey and had brought the damn thing into the church's tiny nave to be ridden by the Virgin Mary (actually 16-year-old Eva-Claire Toohey) during tonight's dress rehearsal. The donkey did not approve of being ridden, did not approve of the Virgin Mary or Eva-Claire Toohey, did not approve of the dress rehearsal, and maybe didn't even approve of Christmas itself. It was showing its irritation by braying _loudly_ while a Wise Man fretfully tossed hay at it. 

“Alright, children,” hollered Mrs. Pineda, clapping her hands. Ed wondered if she'd been saddled with organizing this year's pageant because she was the only parishioner louder than a donkey. “I need Joseph, Mary, all the Wise Men – yes, Patrice, including you – by the manger immediately.” 

Near her, a tall redheaded girl dressed as a villager jumped up anxiously. “Mrs. Pineda, isn't it also --”

“Yes, yes, Harriet – I also need Clumpy Foot,” Mrs. Pineda said darkly, glaring at the animal standing to the side of the pulpit. 

Ed was relieved not be in this scene. He needed a break. Plus, he told himself jokingly, the acting prowess he showed as the Innkeeper was so masterful that his scenes should really be limited – for the good of the other kid's feelings. Massaging his temples, he pushed through the crowd and out into the hallway. 

That's when he first saw her. A girl with dark curls, shorter than himself, sitting serenely on a small wooden bench. She was draped in mounds of gauzy white material; underneath it, he could see hints of her plaid school uniform. A pair of cardboard wings decorated with swirls of glued-on lace rested by her feet. All around her, kids in costumes joked, whispered, schemed, and rough-housed. She seemed completely unaffected by the commotion, separate from it all, focusing instead on shaping something out of wire with her hands. 

Ed felt irresistibly _drawn_ to her; he knew at once there was connection between them. (He'd heard his mother use phrases like that at her monthly book club, the one where all the books had titles like “The Sultan's Secret Sweethearts” or “Sinners of Des Moines”, and rolled his eyes. Now, he had to admit, he just knew how those fictional housewives felt when they promised to lay down their lives for the some traveling encyclopedia salesman. It was a weird feeling, but one he couldn't deny.) 

It wasn't just that she was pretty, though she certainly was. His brain had already taken note of that fact -- and had turned on the dry throat and sweaty palms accordingly. It was the comforting aura, she exuded. There was strength in her solitude. 

His heart pounded as he approached her. He did his best to look nonchalant in his burlap tunic and fake beard. “Hey, uh, uh, you mind if I sit down?” 

She looked up at him, not seeming at all caught-off-guard by his sudden appearance. Her eyes were a light clear blue, almost luminous despite the dim orange lighting of the hall. “Of course you can sit down,” she said with friendly smile. She held up a bent, wonky golden circlet. “I'm just working on my halo, it's not looking particularly angelic yet.” 

He lowered himself awkwardly, sitting to face her. “I'm, uh, good with my hands,” he offered. “You don't spend 17 years trying to roll the tightest spitball in New England without developin' some real dexterity.”

“What a resume,” she laughed. “I'm Lorraine.” She handed him the wire. 

“Ed,” he replied. 

**1957**

Ed would've liked to say the first time he noticed Lorraine's abilities on their first date. Truth be told, it was more like the fifth – and even then, he didn't know quite what he was witnessing. 

He’d picked her up from school and taken her to grab a bite. Now they were parked in Ed's father's new Plymouth in her family’s driveway, heater blasting on high. Outside, a thin layer of snow and ice clung to the ground making the grassy lawn appear as if it was made of small shards of stained glass.

Ed was three-quarters of the way through a story about his new part-time job at the movie theater, when he noticed Lorraine staring fixedly at a spot in the yard a few feet to the right of them. She was completely still; even the hand holding half of her left-over sandwich was frozen in mid-air.

“Lorraine? Lorraine? Hey,” Ed put his hand on her shoulder gently. “Everything okay?”

Lorraine nodded, but didn't move her gaze. “Sure” she said, distractedly. He could tell she was trying to smile, but the effort transformed her face into a grimace instead. “Keep talking, I'm listening.”

“You are _not_ ,” he said, a little amused but also a little worried. “That's okay. I don't listen to me either.”

She didn't laugh. This concerned him even more; she was a generous audience most of the time. 

He shook her shoulder again. “Hey. You look like you've seen a ghost, Lorraine.”

That got her attention. He could see her force herself to take a deep breath, lower her shoulders in an attempt to seem relaxed. She half-heartedly grinned at him and finished taking a small bite of her sandwich. Ed knew it was an act, though; her eyes still kept darting back to the same spot. 

“Is there something over there?” He craned his neck a bit for a better look. 

Lorraine looked fully at him now. “Is there?” She asked him after a pause. She sounded wary. 

He peered out the passenger-side window again. Nothing looked out of the ordinary. “Not that I can tell. What's goin' on? I'm getting... this is a little weird.”

Lorraine wrapped up the last of her sandwich and brushed some errant crumbs off her skirt. She looked like she was trying to decide whether to say something. Ed's unease grew. 

“Ed,” Lorraine finally said slowly, focusing her eyes on his face. “What would you say if I told you I _had_ seen a ghost?”

Ed looked back at her. There was no amusement on her face; she was dead serious. Ed touched the silver chain hanging around his neck. 

“Well,” Ed cleared his throat a bit nervously. “I'd tell you this story. But it means more listenin' to me, are you up for that?” 

She nodded and Ed reached out to tuck a stray curl back behind her ear. He let his fingers rest gently against her neck for a moment, feeling the tension there. 

“I was nine. I was in bed, trying to count the holes. You know those ceiling tiles? They're white and they got lines of tiny holes running across them – they look like they're made outta paper. Anyway, my bedroom back then had got those and I used to mess with them all the time when I couldn't sleep. I'd lay on the floor and toss pencils up there, see if I could get 'em to stick. If I was really bored, I'd stand on the dresser and play connect the dots – at least I would til my dad caught me doing it.” He grinned, remembering. “You ever had to erase stuff off a ceiling? I had to use one of those tiny erasers on the end of a pencil.” He mimed, pretending to scrub furiously with a finger. “My knuckles ached for about a week.”

“So, that night I couldn't sleep and I was just laying there, starin' up and trying to figure how many dots were on each tile.” Ed took a deep breath. “And then, outta nowhere, something reached up from under my bed and... it grabbed me, Lorraine, I swear – clamped itself on my wrist, hard, and dragged me off the bed like I weighed nothin'. Scared me half to death 'cause I knew I was alone in that room. And I knew...” 

Suddenly he stopped. “Aren't you going to say something?” 

Lorraine shook her head, surprised. “I want to hear the rest,” she said. “I think I need to.”

Ed shrugged, a little embarrassed. “It's just that I don't usually make it this far into the story before getting told that I'm just looking for attention, or it was just a nightmare and I shouldn't have eaten all those Wax Bottles before bed.”

“Oh, Ed,” Lorraine leaned forward suddenly, grasping both his hands in hers. “You're not supposed to actually _eat_ the bottles.”

Ed broke into a wide grin. “Oh, now someone tells me,” he said mournfully. “I've swallowed enough wax to make a dozen candles.”

“The good news is I know where to come next time I need a votive.” The words barely left Lorraine's mouth before she flushed. “Gross,” she added.

Ed laughed. “You're thinking about what exactly would need to happen for all that wax in my belly to become a candle, aren't you?”

“The danger of not thinking a joke all the way through before you tell it,” Lorraine said a little sheepishly. She was still holding his hands and now her grip tightened; her ringed fingers dug a bit into the flesh of his palms. “But Ed,” she said urgently, “Ed, forget that. Tell me what you knew. Back then.” 

“Wait.” He wasn't sure about this. “You really believe me?”

“Of course I believe you.”

“Well,” Ed sat back and ran a hand through his hair. “I gotta say, this is a first. But I'm also not surprised.” He shot a look out at the spot she’d been transfixed on. 

Lorraine tugged at him. “It’s gone now. I need to know the rest of your story. What did you know?”

“I knew the thing that had grabbed me wasn't human,” he said. “What do you mean ‘it’s gone’?”

She ignored the question. “What happened then?”

”I, um, I ran to get my dad. I could tell he just thought I was tellin' stories. He told me to face my fears and get back in bed. So I pulled out this,” Ed fished around under his collar until his fingers closed on the silver crucifix that lay there. He drew it out for Lorraine to see. “I lay down next to the bed and held it out in front of me. I've never been so close to wettin' my pants in my life, but I lay there and told whatever it was under the bed to leave in the name of God. I thought for sure I was gonna be pulled under that bed and never come back. But, instead, nothin'. I've never taken it off since.”

“You made it go away? You _vanquished_ it? That's... Ed --” 

Ed tried to answer, but Lorraine kept talking excitedly. “Ed. I feel, I mean, we...” She reached down, took out a worn blue book from the school satchel propped against her leg and handed it to Ed. “This is fate. Us being together. Look in the back,” she urged. 

It was a worn Children's Bible. Ed gingerly flipped to the end of the text; the spine of the book felt as though it was clinging to the cover by only a few stubborn strings. 

“To Almighty God,” he read out loud. “Who gave... jy--”

“Joy,” Lorraine assisted. 

“Who gave joy to the world through Jesus Christ, please protect me from that Thing. I love you. Amen. Lorraine.”

“Keep going,” she said. 

“April 1946. Monster in sitting room scared grabbed me and pretended to be Auntie Viv. October 1946. Ghost Lady without eyes followed me after school whistling. December 1946. Dreamed I was trapped in a smelly box, there was a rope that rang a bell but no one came. January 1947. Saw Pop's old yellow dog Buster who died, he licked my face and let me rub the fuzzy pink spot on his nose. May 1947. Got the ruler from Sister Wendeline in Arithmetic, a mean faced man with burned fingers kept knocking on the window and made me not focus.” 

Ed broke off reading, feeling almost anguished. “Lorraine. Hell. What is all this?”

“It's my life,” she said simply. “Part of it. I've seen these things, things like you saw, ever since I was a little girl. They surround me, they want to use me, to speak to me. It used to be so overwhelming and so scary. It's gotten better, I've learned to control it more. And they're not all bad. But, Ed, I felt so alone. And no one ever, ever believed me.”

Ed pictured her as a small child, walking in the schoolyard while groups of children pointed and whispered. Alone -- except for the hunched eyeless creature following her who only she could see. It made his chest burn. 

“Hell,” he said again, quietly. “God, I'm so sorry. I believe you.”

“I know you do. I think... I think it's part of why we met. I can find these things — when they don’t find me first. I can sense them. I see what they do to people. But I don’t always know how to control them, how to stop them. You do.” Ed held up a hand. “Well, I don’t know abou...” She gestured to herself, still talking. “Like lock,” and to him, “key. Does that sound silly?”

“Truthfully, Lorraine, nothin' really sounds silly to me right now. I don’t know if I really know how to stop any of the things you see. I don’t,” he said, looking back down at the book. “But I know God does. And I know you’re my girl and I’m pretty sure we can beat anything together.” 

She leaned over and kissed him. It wasn’t the first time, but was the sweetest to Ed.

***

Lorraine swiveled cheerfully on the padded red stool behind the movie theater concession stand, popping a peanut into her mouth. She’d happily paid $1.10 for a ticket to Jailhouse Rock to stay with Ed in the lobby while the picture played — handing out lemon Cokes to giddy, squealing groups of girls and trying to conceal herself behind the popcorn maker when Ed’s boss hurried by. When customers were scarce, she and Ed had slipped into the theater to watch — and later he’d re-enacted the scenes she’d missed for her, using a box of Mike and Ike’s as a guitar.

After the last showing, Ed had been sweeping up kernels of dropped popcorn and bits of napkins when he’d called out to her.

”Hey, I wanna ask you somethin’.”

”What do you wanna ask me?” She teased, turning in a slow circles. The brightly colored advertisements for ice cream and candy seemed to stretch and bleed into one as she turned. “I’ve already graded your Elvis impersonation.”

”Four times,” she added on the next turn. “Need to work on your sneer.”

He smiled a bit, but then cleared his throat. “Uh, who is Auntie Viv?”

Lorraine wasn’t too surprised by the question, she’d even been expecting it when she showed him her Bible. She put her foot down hard to stop the stool; the fabric of her patterned skirt swirled around her knees. “She was my aunt, my mom’s younger sister. She died when I was very young from a long illness, I’m not sure exactly what. I should have asked a long time ago, but I don’t... well, I don’t really like to talk about her because of what happened. When I was a kid.”

Ed nodded. “Is that who you saw outside the car that night?” He emptied the last of the trash into the bin by the main doors.

”Yes,” Lorraine said calmly. “And no. It’s not really her, it just _says_ it’s her. But, whatever it is, it doesn’t even try to look like her. I always thought Auntie Viv was the most beautiful girl I knew, she had this long soft hair and these crystal eyes and — “

”Sounds like there’s a family resemblance,” Ed said warmly, studiously avoiding Lorraine’s gaze.

Lorraine blushed. “I hope so.” She took a deep breath. “But the thing — it might have once been a person, but now it’s... it’s ragged and rotting, dressed in a black sack. It barely has a face, just these eyes that burn and burn. It’s... it’s not her, Ed. It can’t be.”

Ed looked shaken at her description. “It’s not,” he said, sounding unsure. “It’s not.”

He came around the candy display and leaned a hip against the counter. “I see it the most,” Lorraine said earnestly. “Outside my house, by my Auntie Viv’s grave, even by the church. Sitting in the back of Big Ol’ Pop’s car — watching us,” she added quickly, shooting him a quick look.

”I think,” she went on, “I think it feeds on sorrow. I think it finds a person or a family who has been through a tragedy — and it latches itself to them. The sadder they are, the weaker they are, and the easier to take they are. Um, once,” she went on uncomfortably, “I saw it _feeding_ on someone outside the O’Malley house.” 

Ed shuddered, a wave of distress passing violently over his handsome features. Lorraine could practically see his thoughts, they echoed her own. Four years ago, death had visited the O’Malley family so often that some folks began to wonder if it was being invited somehow. They’d buried elderly Mrs. O’Malley on a Tuesday in March, Claudine O’Malley and her twin later that week on Saturday, Mr. O’Malley in early April, and little Junie in May. Only Ryan had been left by summer and he was gone by fall. The air of tragedy and disaster surrounding the home was thick and dense, like hanging smoke from a campfire, and it clung to it relentlessly.

”Do you think,” Ed started to ask.

”Yeah,” she cut him off. “I don’t know _how_ that thing did it, but I know it’s responsible somehow.”

“Okay,” he said kneeling down next to her, resting a hand on her knee. “I talked to Father Michael. Don’t be ma — “

She was already groaning. “Edddddd. Father Michael is...”

”I know, I know, he thought I was nuts and told me I needed to quit my job here because ‘the idolatrous worship of cinema fame is corrupting my soul’. But _then_ I talked to Father Frank and it was good, Lorraine. He believes us and he knows a lot. We need someone’s help if we are gonna do this the right way, especially the first time. And we are gonna to do it.”

He stood up and offered Lorraine a hand. “It’s quittin’ time, let’s go. Oh, and Father Frank also told me that Mrs. Pineda saw us necking outside the diner and expects to see us both at confession.” He winked at her. “Soon.”

***

The basement window of the O’Malley house had been broken a couple years back by mischievous kids. It wasn’t difficult at all for Lorraine to squeeze through it into the abandoned home, maneuvering slowly to avoid the few remnants of jagged glass along the edges.

She took a deep breath before placing the toe of one polished saddle shoe onto the unfinished dirt floor. She was expecting to be flooded with terrifying visions from the moment she entered — but so far, nothing. Her foot landed solidly without incident. 

Using the flashlight, she picked her way through the trash and mildewed debris that was scattered around the floor. She ran lightly up the stairs and forced open the back door. 

Ed grunted his thanks under the weight of the reel-to-reel recording machine and microphone he’d borrowed from Father Frank. The soles of his shoes squelched against the concrete porch as he teetered in. 

They settled themselves in the first floor living room. The room had a damp, musty odor that seemed to emanate from the walls themselves. Dilapidated furniture settled depressingly against the walls, untouched for years, and decaying slowly. A lone damp black glove lay crumpled under an ottoman. And on the walls, framed photographs of generations of O’Malleys looked down upon them. 

Lorraine kept her gaze lowered. The photos were hard to look at; the depth of the pain this family endured was unfathomable. 

Ed finished setting up the machine and flicked it on. “Ready?” He asked her.

“Ready.”

“I’m Ed Warren,” he said into the microphone. “I’m at the O’Malley property with Lorraine Moran. We are here with the permission of Father Franklin Boulware to gather evidence of a demonic presence.”

He pressed the STOP button.

“So professional,” Lorraine teased gently. “Did you practice in front of the mirror at home a lot?”

“A lot,” Ed confirmed with mock-seriousness. “Father Frank might take this to the Vatican, though, so I want to do it well.” 

He looked around the gloomy, quiet space. “We just need to get _evidence_ of the demon you’ve been seeing. Are you sensing anything?”

“No,” she said. “Normally I can’t get it to leave me alone. But now, nothing. It’s odd.”

“What were you doing the first time it showed itself?” Ed asked. “Maybe we could recreate the moment.”

Lorraine thought back. “Dancing with a broom named Ice Cream?” 

“Well,” Ed gestured to the empty room around them. “Let’s see it!”

Lorraine laughed. “Not a chance.” She opened her bag and, carefully, brought out the framed photograph of Auntie Viv. She’d taken it over the strenuous objections of Grandma Nan earlier that morning. Ed glimpsed a wide smile in a sweet face surrounded by dark, flowing hair. 

“This might work,” Lorraine said, a little reluctantly. “It can’t seem to resist Auntie Vi — “

A harsh, rough scraping noise interrupted her. As Ed and Lorraine watched in horror, the O’Malley family photographs began to move. Each frame slide across the gray, stained walls seemingly on its own, meeting with the others to form two wide, intersecting lines. 

“A cross.” Ed’s voice shook. 

“Turn on the tape,” Lorraine said in a near whisper. 

Ed fumbled with the RECORD button, unable to take his eyes off the symbol on the wall. As he did, Lorraine noticed something. The faces in the photograph — they were _changing_. 

A curly-haired man with a beard (Ryan, she recalled) no longer looked out at her with a broad grin. His features were angry, his lips pulled back in a snarl like a rabid, stray dog. 

An elderly woman in a straw hat held a kitchen knife, wet and rusty at the tip, against a young woman’s throat. An abandoned Easter basket lay toppled over nearby.

A small girl opened her mouth in an unending, angry scream baring jagged teeth. 

Lorraine could hardly breath. “Ed,” she started. He reached toward her, eyes fixed on the wall.

The picture cross moved. It turned slowly, slowly. It hung upside down before them. 

Then the cross, with all it’s delicate parts, hurtled right at them. There wasn’t time to get up and run, only to cover their heads before the photographs crashed into them. Lorraine felt tiny pinpricks of pain as small pieces of glass grated across her skin. Ed gasped as an edge opened an angry hash across his forearm.

They struggled to their feet. Wind whipped around their ankles from some unknown source, churning and twisting the pieces of glass into a cyclone. 

Music began to play. Ed and Lorraine looked around in confusion, there was no record player here or even a radio that they’d seen. “A tiiiiiisket,” Ella Fitzgerald wobbled - her voice distorted, thick, and croaking. In the spaces between her words, Lorraine could hear that familiar static hiss. 

The cyclone of glass circled and turned more and more quickly. The pieces glittered and darkened. They rose and rose — forming a shape. A figure. The demon.

It had a burning hole where it’s face should be; only yellowing broken teeth and hot-coal eyes remained. It wore black rags, but through them, she could just make out it’s abnormally long, sinewy limbs — dripping and wet. Any beauty the pieces of glass might have had were gone now, sucked into the dull angry void that surrounded it. 

It took a step towards them, raising one arm slowly, reaching out. It sought them out, wanting to latch on, to feed.

Ed’s face was ashen and aghast. He was visibly trembling. Lorraine felt a fear stronger than any in her life overwhelm her. _Ed._

“Run,” Lorraine screamed at Ed. “Hide!”

“No,” he yelled back, sounding terrified but determined. Blood soaked his shirt sleeve. “We fight. You’re strong. You can do it and if you can, we can.”

She didn’t want to. She never had, not since that first time. But she was here with him, with Ed, for this. They’d _found_ each other for this. 

She nodded. She stumbled back, just in time to avoid the demon’s clutch.

Just then she felt something hard and rough careen into her shin. Looking down, she saw the torn, ripped remains of her Children’s Bible at her feet. It lay open to its final pages, covered in her own careful childhood script. 

“Almighty God,” Lorraine screamed over the warped, vile music. “Who gave joy to the world through Jesus Christ, protect us from this thing.” She seized the precious blue book by its torn edges and held it aloft like a shield. 

All of sudden, the room fell silent.

“Oh, Lorraine,” came Auntie Viv’s sweet voice, surrounding her, “look how you’ve grown! I missed you. Can’t I give you a hug?” 

“Leave her alone!” Howled Lorraine. 

“I just want to feel your body in my arms.” It pleaded. “Limp and lifeless.”

“I let her go,” Lorraine yelled. “She’s at peace!”

“Don’t listen to it! Grab my hand,” yelled Ed. Lorraine struggled against the mighty force of the winds, taking one hand off the book to join Ed’s. In spite of the chaos around them, their hands fit tightly together — strong and warm.

“Lock and key,” she thought distractedly. 

Ed held out his crucifix. “Go back to Hell!” 

The demon screamed an unholy noise, a sonic shriek, as it withered. As quickly as it formed, it disintegrated — a million charred bits of glass falling on dusty floorboards.

Lorraine sagged against Ed, nearly gasping with relief. He embraced her in silence for a few minutes.

“Not bad for the first time, huh?” He chuckled a bit, still unable to believe what he’s just seen. “I think we got enough for Father Frank.”

Lorraine still held him tight. “I don’t think it’s gone, Ed. It disappeared like that before, remember?”

“I know. Next time we see it, it’ll be the last.”

**1966**

It was.

”But why do they always attach themselves to children’s toys? It makes it so much worse than it needs to be,” Lorraine whispered to Ed. “First Annabelle, now this one.” 

”Why do you think I keep suggesting we buy Judy socks for her birthday?” Ed hissed back.

The toy monkey glared malevolently at them from its shelf. As they watched, one eyelid dropped down in a parody of a rakish wink and it clapped it’s cymbals once. An invitation to old friends.

The darkness around them began to grow. They joined hands and steeled themselves.


End file.
